Dreams
by Selvine das'Annwyn
Summary: A night in the subconscious of Dr. John H Watson - everything seems to be usual, until something unknown changes that. Post-Reichenbach Fall - CONTAINS SPOILERS. Mild angst. Non-beta'd. Please R&R. Thanks


**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC!Sherlock, John Watson, or Sherlock Holmes.**

**WARNING: Post-Reichenbach Fall. Contains spoilers. Of sorts. Ooooh.**

A/N: Sherlock piece #2 (or #53, as my boyfriend suggested), fwah~ Not beta'd/edited. Mild angsting. Happier than the previous uploaded piece (which I suppose isn't hard to do.)

In any event, I hope everyone enjoys. Please remember to review, if you have the time, at all.

Thank you Dearly,  
-Selvine

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Dreams, as John Watson saw them, were nothing more than devices with which your subconscious could torture you. Memories reigned supreme in dreams, taunting their owners with all the mistakes and wrongdoings of the past. Dreams were your subconscious's way of forcing you into a nightly guilt trip from which there was little chance to escape. John knew the futility of trying, and yet he continued to do so every night.

It was rare that the doctor's cravings for war lashed out in nightmares anymore. Watson no longer craved the battlefield, or searched for the near-death experiences he had found in his companion's wake. The nightmares that plagued the soldier now were much worse.

Violent red draped across the veteran's memories in a veil of blood and loss. Occasionally, the stark gray-white of the bleak London sky seeped through. Confusion and heartbreak were equal parts in the cruel symphonies his mind concocted; a hospital roof, a phone call, and the fall that changed everything.

Tonight had started the same as any other. Memories skittered through John's mind in shades reminiscent of blood, from freshly spilled to the deep crimson of days-old coagulation. He was standing still in front of Saint Bartholomew's, desperation holding him in place as his best friend told him lies and crazy plans. Panic had raced down the doctor's spine, pleading with him to do something. Yet some respect, some reverence for the man on Bart's roof, kept the war-trained veteran from action. Like always, Sherlock fell.

John's cries ripped from his throat, tearing past the borders of dreams to reach into the world of the conscious. Pain, tangible and real spiked through the man's sleeping form. Blood, thick and warm filled his mind. A moment later, it was gone.

Confusion and relief swarmed the soldier's thoughts, easing him back, into a relaxed state. John's protests dulled and then dissipated altogether as warmth seeped through him. Heat centered against his cheek; soft, soothing, and rough all at once. Five tendrils of fire spread from his cheek, delivering reassurance throughout John's dreams. Four remained close together, cupping the side of his face in a gentle caress. The fifth, shorter than most of the others, lay separate from the group and moved slowly, sliding across the unconscious man's jaw in an approximation of an upside-down pendulum. The creases that had, for so long, been etched into the veteran's forehead steadily unwrinkled, smoothed, and vanished.

For the first time in nearly three years, Watson found peace and relaxation. The doubts, the needs, even the desperate wants seemed to calm and slide into the background. Weight pressed against the bed, nearly waking the doctor, and heat spread along his side. A lengthy, hard tendril of flame lay across his chest and pulled the soldier close, squeezing him tight and draping him in a blanket of security and comfort.

Feelings of safety and warmth invaded John's body, slowly coloring every fiber of his soul. A feeling of companionship and love, of being in the safest place on Earth made its way into his heart from every point of contact. It was the feeling of having found that secret niche amongst all the bad, where he could bury himself away and never have to worry about facing the pain, the suffering, mistrust and dishonesty, any of the unpleasant ever again. It was the feeling of being cared for, of satisfied contentment that you could only receive from being in the arms of a loved one. It was to this feeling that John slid into the quiet depths of a dreamless sleep, and sank deeper into restfulness than he had in much too long.

When John awoke the following morning, he didn't remember his dreams. Screams of incoherent betrayal, heart-wrenching agonizing bellows of need, cold sweats and panicked eyes as the night terrors clasped on to him even in his waking – these were things of the past. Nothing of pain or horror held him in its grip. Depression that had swarmed the doctor's generally cloudy thoughts lay buried, left to gain dust, to decompose and perish, or perhaps be addressed at a latter time.

A smile, pure and truly happy, had found its way across his face. The doctor had risen earlier than intended, alert and ready to tackle the day's twists and turns. Confusion danced at the corners of his thoughts, wondering at his transformation, and unaware of the feelings of the previous night's altered dreams. The morning had progressed, and ready for the day, the soldier had surveyed his room and closed the door.

Like always, he failed to notice anything of importance. For in the corner, still warm from wear, was a neatly folded and perfectly tailored indigo scarf. Soft fibers grinned in the morning light, as if they knew what John could not.

By the time Doctor John H. Watson returned to his flat, the scarf would be gone.

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**A/N:** Let me know what you think! Thank you for taking the time to read (and hopefully review)! It's much appreciated.  
Love Love,  
-Selvine


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